


Rain Check

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Magical Accidents, Marathon Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: It’s ten in the morning and Quentin’s at the grocery store when he gets the text:I’m better.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Rain Check

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [Accept No Substitutes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313375), in which Eliot's dick is rendered temporarily nonfunctional so he and Quentin have to figure out how to make the most of the situation anyway. I wrote it to troll Rubi and now here I am writing a follow-up as a gift for her, so, idk if I'm very bad or very good at trolling? Probably one of those things.
> 
> Many thanks to Sylph for betaing!

It’s ten in the morning and Quentin’s at the grocery store when he gets the text: _I’m better._

He shoves both gallons of ice cream he was deciding between back into the freezer case, stops a few cases down to grab four frozen pizzas because neither of them are going to be cooking anything today, and rushes through the self checkout without even bothering to count whether he has under twenty items. 

When he gets back to the apartment he throws the bag of groceries on the counter and tuts a messy stasis spell over it, no time to put things in the fridge or freezer, because— he basically sprints for the bedroom, kind of embarrassed at how desperate he feels, because—

Eliot’s sitting up in bed, naked and smirking and _hard_ , his gorgeous huge cock standing against his belly. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Quentin gasps, and dives.

Not literally _dives_ , but like — not far off, really, launching himself onto the bed and crawling and tripping and smashing his face into Eliot’s thigh before he gets his mouth around the head, moans like he’s fucking dying.

“ _Oh_ my god,” Eliot gasps, sounding surprised, like he didn’t _know_ this was going to be the result of his text. “H-hello— fuck, Q, Jesus, hello to you— too— _fuck_ ,” he says, carding his fingers into Quentin’s hair as Quentin remembers he has to actually breathe in order to make his jaw open far enough. He’s drooling all over Eliot’s dick, rivulets of it running down to his hand holding the base because it always takes him a minute to get it all the way in because it’s _big_. It’s _so_ fucking big, and _hard_ and hot and god, Quentin meant everything he said, the last few days, about _I’m in love with you not with your dick_ , and _also_ he does love Eliot’s dick. A lot. A whole lot.

He’s still fully dressed, like, coat and shoes and everything. He’s probably getting the bedspread dirty. He doesn’t care. Even Eliot doesn’t seem to care. Or he just hasn’t noticed yet, probably because Quentin’s mouth is sliding further and faster over his cock. The muscles of his thighs are twitching already, his hips trying to fuck up into Quentin’s throat, and Quentin is working his way up to being able to pull off and tell him to just go for it when Eliot shouts and comes with absolutely no warning.

“Sorry,” he gasps, as Quentin swallows down every drop, humming contentedly. “Fuck. That completely snuck up on me.”

“‘S fine,” Quentin says. He could have happily sucked Eliot’s cock for another hour, but this is good too. He manages to kick off his shoes, peel out of his coat and sweater before the urge to climb into Eliot’s lap gets too strong to ignore.

“Hello,” he says belatedly, kissing Eliot on the tip of his nose, grinning like an absolute idiot. “Sorry. Forgot to say that when I came in earlier.”

“I don’t think I’d actually mind if that were your new way of saying hello.” Eliot slings his arms around Quentin’s waist. “To me, anyway.”

“And in the privacy of our own home.”

“Sure,” Eliot says. “Or, you know, not.” Quentin eyes him skeptically, and he adds, “I’m taking you to Ibiza this year, remember? You’ll have plenty of opportunities there to greet me in your own special way.”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says, still skeptical, but also maybe a little turned on at the thought of blowing Eliot in front of— whoever might be there to see it. His dick stirs in his pants. “So, uh. Any idea what today’s going to look like now? Like, do you think you’ve got the same amount of energy you normally do, or is it like— saved up? From when you got cursed?”

“I don’t know, Q,” Eliot says, flashing his eyes downward meaningfully. “What do _you_ think?”

Quentin looks down at Eliot’s spent dick — which is not looking spent anymore, already filling again where it’s nestled against Quentin’s groin. It’s been, at most, two minutes. Eliot’s stamina is impressive, but it’s not usually _this_ fast. 

“I think I should’ve bought us some Gatorade,” he says, mouth watering. “We’re going to need to hydrate.”

Eliot laughs and drags him in for a kiss.

Quentin sucks him off again, and this time Eliot lasts long enough to fuck his mouth properly. Then Eliot flips Quentin over with telekinesis, undresses him with practiced efficiency and gets his mouth on Quentin’s cock for about a minute before he’s hard again and Quentin is fucking begging him to fuck him, please, _please Eliot I need you_ in _me._ It’s good, so goddamn good, Eliot’s cock is as big as all the toys they’ve used over the past few days but hot and _alive_ and he wields it as skillfully as he always does, making Quentin leak precome all over the sheets as he fucks into him like he fucking _means_ it.

After two rounds of that, they’re sated enough to actually think for a second. Quentin puts the groceries away, preheats the oven to cook a couple of the half-thawed frozen pizzas that didn’t quite make it into his stasis charm. The oven beeps that it’s ready while Quentin’s in Eliot’s lap, whispering filthy nonsense in his ear as Eliot jerks off, so it sits empty at 350°F for a while.

Eliot insists they need to keep it in their pants for the fifteen minutes it takes for the pizza to actually cook — they don’t want another smoke detector incident like the last time Quentin tried to make dinner — so Quentin throws on one of Eliot’s satin robes and lounges on the couch, scrolling through Netflix, while Eliot takes a shower and the apartment fills with the scent of melted cheese and cheap pepperoni.

“You remember you have your own robes, right?” Eliot asks when he comes to the kitchen, hair wet and cheeks flushed, to find Quentin with his mouth full of too-hot pizza.

“Yeah, but they’re all fuzzy and fluffy,” Quentin says, swallowing with difficulty. He should really be more careful, he needs his mouth and throat in good shape for the rest of the day. “I wanted something _sexy_.”

“Anything is sexy if you’re wearing it,” Eliot purrs. He casts a minor wind spell over his pizza, blowing Quentin’s hair away from his face and making him shiver.

“Oh yeah?” Quentin asks. “So why’d you throw out all my college sweatpants, then?”

Eliot makes a brief gesture and Quentin’s piece of pizza floats up off his plate and directly at his face, forcing him to either take a bite or get pizza grease up his nose.

Given that Quentin doesn’t have multiple days of pent-up sexual frustration to power him, they decide over lunch that they need to be more judicious with his orgasms for the rest of the day. He can usually go three, maybe four times, and he’s already used two of those. Eliot, meanwhile, admits he fingered himself and jerked off again in the shower and still he’s pretty sure he’ll be hard again by the time they’re done eating.

So Quentin brushes his teeth to banish any lingering pepperoni spice and sucks him off on the couch, a slow, luxurious process, sinking two fingers into him towards the end, making Eliot nearly sob as he comes hard down his throat. Eliot pins Quentin down on the living room rug and fucks between his thighs, holding his legs tight together with ribbons of magic and biting red marks into his shoulders and the back of his neck. Quentin, achingly hard, manages to keep his hands off his dick for long enough to get out one of the smaller toys Eliot brought home and use it on him, working the firm tip against his prostate so Eliot comes and comes and _comes_ , there’s so _much_ of it, he’s eight orgasms deep and his body’s still reacting like he hasn’t gotten off in days. Then when Eliot’s hard again, Quentin fucks him slowly, drawing it out until they’re both shaking messes.

After that, it is _emphatically_ nap time. Quentin puts on sweatpants (with no stains or holes or broken elastic, yes, Eliot, but the old ones were full of _memories_ ) and snuggles into Eliot’s arms. Eliot’s breath ghosting across his cheek, their legs tangled together — this is just as good, in some ways, as Eliot’s cock in his mouth. If this was what they had, this would be enough.

He wakes up bleary-eyed early in the evening. Eliot’s snoring lightly into his ear. He’s also hard, his cock tenting his pajama pants and pressing against Quentin’s thigh. Quentin spends a minute debating whether that one time Eliot asked him to wake him up with a blowjob means it’s okay to do it again now, or if he needs permission. The cautious side of him wins out, and he kisses Eliot’s cheek softly, drags his lips over Eliot’s scruff to nip at his earlobe. Eliot makes a quiet noise and shifts in his sleep, tugging Quentin closer.

“Hey,” Quentin whispers. “You wanna keep napping?”

“Nnh,” Eliot says, his tone conveying _Possibly, I’m not really sure._

“Is it okay if I suck your dick to wake you up?”

“Nnyeah,” Eliot says, one eye fluttering open, more or less focusing on Quentin’s face. He shifts again, rutting sleepily against Quentin, not at all coordinated but definitely interested.

Quentin grins and ducks under the covers, takes his time licking Eliot all the way hard, sucking gently on his balls, tasting the precome that beads at his tip. He knows he’s almost out of teasing time when Eliot starts squirming, hips rocking in an effort to convey that he’d like Quentin to _get to it, already_ , but he just smiles to himself and keeps swiping his tongue lazily up and down and over the sensitive head of Eliot’s dick to make him twitch and leak. It’s maybe a minute later when Eliot’s hand is suddenly under the covers, grabbing Quentin’s hair firmly, and his other is throwing the covers back, revealing Eliot’s flushed face, his heaving chest, his exceptionally turned on but also exceptionally irritated expression.

“I think three days of fucking you silly and not coming once was enough teasing for a little while, don’t you?” he asks, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Fine, fine,” Quentin says, and swallows him down.

After, Quentin snuggles back up with Eliot, his dick pushing a little against the front of his sweats but not quite all the way hard. They kiss for what feels like an hour, unhurried, fully absorbed in each other, then fall back asleep again.

When they finally wake, in a completely dark apartment, Eliot stretches and groans. “I think I may have one more in me before I’m back to normal,” he says, his face screwed up as he works out a kink in his neck, “but I can handle it myself, if you’re tired.”

Quentin hums thoughtfully, caught up in the usual argument between his heart (which always wants more sex with Eliot, always, always) and his body (which is sadly only human and sometimes gets tired or sore). Today, he decides, his heart’s got the upper hand. “I want you to fuck me one more time, if you want.”

Eliot rolls on top of him, weighing him down. “If I ever don’t want that, please contact Bambi and tell her I’ve been replaced by a pod person. She’ll know what to do.”

They take it slow, Eliot kissing his way down Quentin’s body, Quentin’s nerves lighting up with every touch of his lips and tongue. Eliot blows him for a little while, gently, careful on the slightly oversensitive head of his cock. When Quentin’s basically a puddle of happiness, all loose muscles and wordless sighs, he pushes Quentin’s legs up, holds them bent and open with telekinesis so Quentin’s core doesn’t have to do so much work, and licks Quentin’s hole until it’s fluttering and aching and Quentin is begging for something to fill him up.

In deference to their tired muscles, they lie on their sides, facing each other, Quentin’s top leg drawn up over Eliot’s waist, his body curled so Eliot can kiss him as he eases inside. He loses the thread of the kiss when Eliot bottoms out, just moans against Eliot’s cheek, tips his head back so Eliot can pepper his throat with kisses.

“Missed this,” Eliot breathes, muffled against Quentin’s neck. “Missed being inside you. Feeling you move with me.”

“God, me too.” Quentin runs his fingers through Eliot’s hair. “You fuck me so good no matter what, but it’s just, it’s _so_ fucking good— Eliot, _fuck_ —” His chest is tight, full to bursting with love and pleasure and longing. He’s not sure how he still manages to _long_ for Eliot when he’s right here, literally as close as they can physically be, but the corners of his eyes are prickling with it. “I love you so goddamn much.”

“Love you, Q,” Eliot says into the hollow of his throat, hoarse and broken. “Love you— love you with _everything_ —”

Quentin comes crushed as close to Eliot as he can get, feeble little spurts of it as his body finally runs out of steam. He clings to Eliot like he’s a liferaft in the open ocean as Eliot keeps fucking him deep and slow, working up to his own orgasm a little while later.

“Okay,” Eliot sighs. “I feel like myself again.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re in my ass,” Quentin mumbles into his hair, “where you belong.”

Eliot chuckles, but doesn’t argue. They somehow manage to get cleaned up before they fall back asleep, tangled in each other’s arms, sore and bruised and so fucking satisfied.

When Quentin wakes up, he initially thinks the growling he hears is only his stomach — they kind of skipped dinner yesterday, too absorbed in orgasms to bother with pesky things like sustenance, but they also burned a lot of calories and Quentin is ravenously hungry. He realizes after a second that only half the grumbling noises he’s hearing are coming from inside him. Some of them are from the other side of the room. He rolls over and blinks until his eyes can focus and figure out what’s going on.

Eliot’s sitting in the armchair by his dresser, intently focused on a little glowing object hovering between his outstretched fingers. He’s repeating a phrase in French, more and more forcefully as he glares and moves his hands like he’s tearing something apart. It’s not strong and fluid, like his usual magic. It’s raw, a little desperate, brute force that Quentin hasn’t seen him ever use. 

Quentin stays quiet, afraid to disturb him in the middle of whatever this is in case there’s some kind of backlash. They just got done dealing with the aftereffects of a magical accident, and Quentin’s ass is very sure he can’t do that again anytime soon. Finally Eliot repeats his phrase a final time and settles back in the chair, gasping. The little object falls to the floor, its glow fading.

“El?” Quentin asks, as Eliot wipes sweat off his brow.

Eliot startles. “Oh,” he says, sounding a little disappointed. “Well, ideally you would have stayed asleep until breakfast arrived, but I guess I wasn’t exactly quiet, there.” 

Quentin’s stomach gives an almighty growl. “Breakfast?”

“Bagel sandwiches on their way.” Eliot reaches down to tentatively touch the little object on the floor, which is glinting gold in the light filtering through their blinds, then picks it up and sits on the bed. Quentin scoots over to make room, tips his face up for a kiss—

—but Eliot hesitates. “In a moment,” he says to Quentin’s frown. He rubs his hands over his thighs, and Quentin realizes abruptly that he’s still sweating, his breath coming fast.

“Are you okay?” Quentin’s straightening up in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

Eliot sighs. “As always, my inability to get to the point quickly enough is my worst enemy. Nothing is wrong, Q. It’s— the opposite, really.” He grabs Quentin’s wrist, presses something into his hand — the object he’d been enchanting, cool and metallic against Quentin’s palm.

“Normally I’d have planned this out better,” Eliot says, then snorts. “I say _normally_ — as if this is something I ever thought I’d be doing — but. I finally decided to do it, after debating it in my head roughly forever, and then I didn’t want to talk myself out of it before I could go through with it.” He pulls his hand back, leaving Quentin staring in confusion at his eyes, which have gone strangely misty. 

After a second, Quentin realizes he should probably look at whatever Eliot just handed him, and glances down, and—

And—

Quentin recognizes one of the emeralds from Eliot’s favorite vintage cufflinks, a pure shining green. It’s embedded in the gold that used to make up said cufflinks, which has been reshaped with magic, stretched and smoothed into a not quite perfect but definitely wearable—

Ring.

“Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot asks, his voice trembling. “Will you marry me?”

Quentin can’t help it: he bursts into tears. Loud, ugly, chest-wrenching tears, and then as Eliot looks at him in horror the tears give way to hysterical laughter. Quentin buries his face in his hands, the ring pressed hard against his cheekbone.

“Sorry,” he says, “this is— not the appropriate emotional reaction, I know, I just— I fucking love you so _fucking_ much, you idiot.”

“So, ah.” Eliot touches Quentin’s knee tentatively, jerks his hand away. “Is that a yes?”

“What? Oh, god. Fuck. God, of fucking course it’s a yes.” Quentin launches himself blindly into Eliot’s arms, hugs him so tight his sore shoulders complain viciously. “Jesus. Yes.”

“I’ll get you a real ring,” Eliot promises. “Like I said, I wanted to ask before I chickened out, and it turns out it’s not quite as easy to get custom engagement rings delivered on short notice as it is bagel sandwiches.”

“Don’t you dare.” Quentin kisses him, kisses him again, kisses him until his lips hurt. “This is the one I want.”

“It’s a little fucked up. Small-scale transmutations aren’t really my strong suit.”

“Could there be a better goddamn metaphor for us?” Quentin finally actually puts the ring on, his hands shaking. It’s a little too big for his finger, a little lopsided. He takes it off again. “Here, hold it for a second.”

The gold was a cufflink for decades, it got used to that shape, so it wants to be a cufflink still. It takes a good couple minutes of gentle coaxing, powered with the current of strong emotion still spiraling warm and fluid through Quentin’s body, to convince it that it should really try out being a ring instead. But it gets with the program eventually, the thickness of the band evening out, the metal redistributing itself to hold the emerald tighter and size the whole thing down. When Quentin slips it on again, it fits like a dream.

“See? Teamwork in action.” Quentin grins at Eliot, kisses the tears off his cheeks. This leads to another round of kissing, tangling into each other’s arms, rolling over and over on the bed to try and get impossibly closer together.

They break apart when Quentin’s stomach growls so loudly they actually can’t ignore it. “My thoughts exactly,” Eliot says to Quentin’s abdomen. “Breakfast had better get here soon. Our bodies are ready.”

“Oh shit,” Quentin says faintly. He drops his head onto Eliot’s chest. “You know what the fuck I just realized?”

“What?”

“That there is no goddamn way I’m going to be up for sex today.”

Eliot bursts out laughing. “So we only have sex on the days _in between_ important relationship milestones, apparently. That sounds about right.”

“Sure does,” Quentin groans. “Maybe we’ll get it right someday.”

“Maybe.” Eliot shrugs and kisses the top of his head. “Probably not. I’m fine either way.”


End file.
